


Reveille

by svana_vrika



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adults, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Grinding, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Rimming, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svana_vrika/pseuds/svana_vrika
Summary: They’ve bled together, almost died together, have seen each other at their weakest and lowest. Keith knows now that they see each other standing on equal ground.





	Reveille

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired from [this lovely piece of art](https://twitter.com/miraquesucio/status/1127408091891478534) by [Miraquesucio](https://twitter.com/miraquesucio) and by the wonderful group of peeps on the Ace Pilot Discord channel. *blows kisses*
> 
>  **Disclaimer** This story is an original work of fan-fiction. The Voltron: Legendary Defender franchise and its characters, props and settings are the intellectual property of DreamWorks Animation Television, World Events Productions and Studio Mir. I just borrowed from them for a bit of entertainment. No copyright infringements are intended, and I will make no profit from their use. Work is unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

_Warm._

It’s the first thought to pop into Keith’s mind as he emerges from the depths of sleep. A warmth without the weight of blankets, yet different than that of the artificial atmosphere the Castle creates for them, which is almost _too_ perfect at times—a constant reminder that it isn’t real, and of how far away they are from Earth, from home. There’s a weight to this warmth, a familiarity, one that he feels as strongly within as he does in the tactile recognition without. It comforts him, lulls him into a slow, sleepy breath, and then a lazy smile curves his lips as the inhalation brings with it an equally as familiar scent. 

_Shiro._

The smile won’t fade now. It grows, actually, and—eyes still closed—Keith turns his head slightly to press it to the broad shoulder in front of him. There, it widens further as his lips are teased with the brush of worn cotton. A faint blush steals into his cheeks as he recalls how they’d been so greedy for each other the night before that they’d barely managed their boxers off before Shiro’d had two fingers inside him, slicked with spit, both of them too desperate to bother with reaching for the lube on Shiro’s nightstand. It’s always like that after a mission. It doesn’t matter how exhausted or beat up or emotionally drained they are; they fall on each other like they had last night, finding their first steps toward respite and healing in each other and the reminder that they’d survived. The reminder of what they’re fighting _for_. Freedom. The right to live and love. And not just theirs. The Universe’s. 

Keith chuffs a silent snort against Shiro’s shoulder. It’s such a grandiose thought that it would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the absolute truth of it, but then he lets it go, lets his thoughts funnel back to the here and now as he takes another soft breath of Shiro’s scent. Closer now, more awake, he can smell the remnants of their sex mingled with it, and he swallows softly as it worms its way through him and to his dick. Part of him is still awed by it, that this man, this _hero,_ has chosen him. It doesn’t matter that Keith is now a man and hero in his own right, not when he can still recall the days of adolescent jealousy and want, of nicking Shiro’s t-shirts out of the hamper before Adam could toss them in the wash just to get a _hint_ of the scent he’s now so intimately familiar with. But most of him doesn’t think twice about it. He’s not that little kid anymore, and Shiro’s just human. A brilliant, gorgeous human, yes, but one with as many flaws and arse-ups as Keith. He knows that now. 

And he loves him even more for it.

Shiro shifts then, mumbling something incoherent, and Keith doesn’t have to seek out a clock to tell him what time it is. For as long as Keith has known him, Shiro has instinctively risen at Reveille. He’s a military man through-and-through, body and mind that disciplined that he doesn’t need an actual call—or even the minute nuances of Earth’s slow rotation through its twenty-four-hour day—to draw him toward consciousness. Keith doesn’t mind it. For as rebellious as he’s always been, Shiro’s discipline has always been a draw. _Shiro’s_ discipline, though he will admit that his desire to please the man did guide him toward a reluctant acceptance of it from other sources. 

Until Kerberos, anyway. But Keith isn’t going to think about that. 

Shiro shifts again in serendipitous timing, and the stretch of his spine pushes the round firmness of his ass back into the cradle of Keith’s hips with enough pressure that Kerberos, and every other rumination, slips away to wherever corner of his mind they’ve etched themselves into. Keith hums silently, arm tightening over Shiro’s waist as a lazy feeling washes through him. It’s close to arousal, but not enough to actually make him _need_. It’s warm, and comfortable, something purely Shiro’s. A sensation he’s content to bathe himself in, and if he could pin a feeling to define the word _intimacy,_ this one would be it. And then Shiro’s hips are pushing back _again_ , with a murmur of his name and a brush of fingers over his hand, and… 

_Oh._

There’s a split second where awe threatens to overwhelm him—this is _Shiro_ , after all—but it fades away just as quickly, not like the first time Shiro had offered himself to him, when Keith had fumbled and trembled and apologized his way through it before going off like the proverbial virgin—though, by then, he most definitely hadn’t been. Keith thinks that there will _always_ be that moment of awe, but he’s mostly gotten past it. They’ve saved each other so many times by now, literally and metaphorically. They’ve bled together, almost died together, have seen each other at their weakest and lowest. In _better_ circumstances, they’ve begged for each other, Shiro’s need as raw as his own. Keith knows now that they see each other standing on equal ground, so he doesn’t hesitate. Instead, he tips his head up enough to press lips to the nape of Shiro’s neck as he slides his hand down to stroke his fingers over Shiro’s cock. 

Shiro murmurs his name, voice low, thick with fading sleep and rising want. Keith’s blood warms with it and he curls his hand to lazily stroke Shiro fuller as he rolls his hips against Shiro’s ass. The motion causes remnants of Shiro’s spend to slip free from his hole and trickle down his thighs and, like _that,_ Keith is fully hard. Groaning softly, Keith ruts more firmly against him, hand tightening, thumb brushing a slow swathe across Shiro’s broad cockhead. Shiro purrs, deep and rumbling from his chest, and cants his hips up just slightly, enough to where Keith can push into the hot space between Shiro’s ass cheeks. 

Keith thrusts, slow and sensual, as he starts to stroke again, and his mouth lays a hot, lazy trail over what of Shiro’s back and neck he can reach, teasing up to an ear, playing with a lobe, and then kissing his way back down again. The hand trapped beneath Shiro’s weight plays over Shiro’s upper abdomen and pectorals, tracing musculature, tracing scars, toying with the nipple within its reach, Keith drawing on every ounce of will he has until Shiro’s cock is slick and he’s lightly trembling and he finally breathes, “Keith, please.” 

For a second, Keith just stops, breaths washing over damp skin and the blotches his mouth has left. He has to, the power those two words have over him is that strong, but then he pushes up, nudges Shiro over and makes a grab for the neglected lube. It’s a different scenario than the night before, a different sort of need, and they simply don’t do it this way as often, not because they _couldn’t,_ but because Keith is unashamedly greedy for Shiro’s cock and how it splits him open. Beyond that, it’s sweet and cinnamon and tingles and makes Shiro gasp so prettily as Keith fingers him and licks into him, the flavor adding a heady spice to Shiro’s taste and subtle hints of his own from where he’d spilled onto Shiro’s groin and thighs when he’d ridden him last night. 

By the time Shiro’s ready, Keith is aching like it’s been weeks since he’s last orgasmed instead of hours. Wiping the wet from his cheek across Shiro’s left glute, he pushes onto his knees and then into him, hands sliding out to Shiro’s hips from where they’d held his ass open. Shiro groans his name and arches back to meet him, and the brush of Shiro’s ass against his balls sends a delectable shiver up Keith’s spine. Shiro clenches around him almost instantly, tearing a groan from his throat in turn and, grip tightening, Keith arches out to push back into him. He thrusts slow and shallow at first, and then builds until he’s forcing raw, gasping sounds from Shiro’s throat as he fucks into him and Shiro fucks into his own fist.

Keith comes first, unable to hold back, not given the slick of Shiro’s come between his own thighs, how he can still taste Shiro and cinnamon on his tongue, how Shiro’s chanting his name in a tone that’s at once rough and plaintive as he nears his own peak. With a growl that bares his slightly elongated canines, Keith pulls Shiro back against him, nails biting flesh, as he comes, the sound dropping an octave and becoming more feral as Shiro follows, tight heat spasming hard around his sensitized flesh and pulling a final, borderline painful, burst from him that makes him see stars as he slumps forward. Shiro moves, lowering them both to the bed, then doing this… _thing_ where he simultaneously slips free from Keith’s weight and rolls to draw him into his arms, and Keith curls into Shiro’s chest, sighing contentedly. They’re a mess, from last night, from this, but there’s time, so he closes his eyes. And then smiles again. He was wrong before. In his earlier ruminations. He wasn’t far from home at all. He’s with Shiro. He never is.


End file.
